Heart of Flame: The Story of Dustfinger
by bibliophile1
Summary: In short, these are my theories on Dustfinger's possible childhood, except elaborated from my original speculations. Also my 1st upload. Please comment, esp. if I contradict Inkheart, et. al., in any way. DISCONTINUED, sorry. I'll finish it... slowly.
1. Chapter 1:New Self

Heart of Flame:

The Story of Dustfinger

Chapter One: New Self

In life, he was a legend. In disappearance, he was missed. In death, he was lamented. When given a second chance at life, he was gossiped about for many years, even after his final passing. He was a man of power with aura of mystery, and the ability to control the very fire of the earth. The man himself made little mark on the world, but the minstrels sung his tales, spinning the fire of his story into a golden tapestry, with as much fiction as truth. But the legend known as Dustfinger began as a young boy whose original name was lost to time. The name he took for his own came, as all his life seemed to, from the very flames he loved like the closest of friends. This is the part of the story you never hear.

The story begins in a small camp outside Ombra's walls. There were many people, laughing and singing and merry. They were a motley folk, and indeed that was the name of these penniless, yet merry people. Minstrels and dancers and rope-walkers all congregated in this one small spot, groups huddled and laughing around fires for warmth, happy and gay despite that looming fact that a tiny slip-up in a performance would plunge any one of the Motley Folk straight from the frying pan and into the fire. Even with the meager coin they received for pedaling their arts through village streets, was not enough for most of them, who had to resort to petty thievery simply to eat. But so long as there was a place to stay, there would always be carefree joy and fellowship in a Strolling Players' camp.

One small boy was alone and shivering at the edge of the camp. He was entranced by ho happy these people were, like some big happy family. He didn't understand the concept of how these people could be so happy while still so poor. Even as small and young as he was, he could see how their colorful clothes were threadbare and mended, like his own plain trousers and tunic. But clearly they did not want for anything, though they were lacking in so much.

The boy wanted to join them… but he wasn't a part of the group. He wasn't part of any group, not any more. His parents could hardly provide enough for a dog, let alone a family of so many. Now the plague was riddling their house by the tavern, and no one could safely go near it. The boy was the only one left who was still healthy enough to be out, and then no one cared for a poor lonely boy who couldn't even enter his own home.

He waited in the shadows, watching the flames dance, swirling all around in complex patterns. He loved the designs fire made, and had always gone as close as he was allowed to the flames. The boy couldn't understand why the grown-ups wouldn't let him stroke it. He knew the fire felt hot up close, but surely something so beautiful couldn't hurt him. Fire was too pretty to cause pain.

He watched and waited as the moon traveled slowly across the sky, until one of the groups nearby moved to join the largest group, the one big happy circle around the biggest fire. He didn't understand about this gathering of the people, but he did understand about the fire. He watched then throw dirt on it and leave, but the pretty fire was still alive, still glowing and smoking. He scurried in to go touch it, poking his finger through the dust to feel the hot coals, where he quickly learned a surprising lesson: fire hurt! He pulled out his hand with a yelp, shaking it and blowing on it. Had he been older or in less pain, he may have thought of how his commotion might attract the attention of these people.

But he didn't, and now they were surrounding him, scary faces looming above and murmuring in their evil voices. He realized a smaller girl about his age was talking to him, with what he would eventually know as a pretty face and a beautiful voice. She was pointing at him, but the name she said wasn't his. "Dustfinger," she called him. "Dustfinger-boy, come play with me." He looked at himself, puzzled. Why was she calling him by this name? Then he saw the ash on his burned finger and wiped it off in his trousers. But he ran to go join the happy circle, and ready to make a name for himself. He didn't understand it very well, but he knew he had a new life and a new name.

He was Dustfinger of the Motley Folk.


	2. Chapter 2:Growing Pains

Heart of Flame:

The Story of Dustfinger

Chapter Two: Growing Pains

The boy called Dustfinger grew up, swiftly turning from a little child to a rambunctious young lad, traveling from camp to camp with the strolling players. He learned to hide in all locations, to vanish through the woods, to travel undetected through the hostile territory like that which the Strolling Players so often found themselves in. While he acquired many skills more mature folk often never heard of, he also enjoyed his share of wild, whooping, boyish fun. His old life quickly faded into the distance, as he raced about with all the playmates he could find. He shouted with the loudest of them, climbed trees with the nimblest of them, played pranks with the trickiest of them. He conquered pines, landed fish, constructed forts and played guards and prisoners, got into scrapes, and took dares with all the apparent bravado of the other boys.

Once, they dared him to try to stick an old dry leaf into a campfire without burning it. Without batting an eye, he walked up to the nearest unguarded cookfire, grabbed a browned leaf off the ground and swiped it through the flames. The boys were bewildered, and the satisfied young ruffian smiled with glee, never letting on how he'd selected a leaf soaked by undried dew. Even then, he was clever and quick with his fingers.

But the most important dare came one night when the Strolling Players were invited into the city for a big celebration. All the Strolling Players had left the camp to optimize on this opportunity, except for those too old or young to perform.

He and the most daring of the boys left in the camp snuck away from their snoring guardians and into the edge of the Wayless Wood. They were having a fine time with their simple game of explorer, but the ante was upped by a chance finding of a fire-elf nest. The oldest dared anyone who would to try and steal a little fire honey.

All the others laughed. They scoffed, hiding their cowardice. After all, who would want to steal fire honey? It was utterly useless, and elves would torment them for as long as they were in that area. All they would get for their trouble was a batch of burn marks from fire elf stings and a piece of useless junk. Fire honey wasn't even interesting or shiny or wriggly like the kinds of things a boy wanted in his pocket. Someone who carried that around was either very brave or a complete fool, and probably the latter.

Dustfinger, for whatever reason, volunteered. The eldest boy later reported, "He was as calm as could be as he strolled up to that tree. That confident expression never left his face even as he darted in with his hands, swiped a bit of honeycomb, and strolled in a leisurely, if rapid, way from the nest. Those fire elves never even saw it coming."

Whether Dustfinger was as confident as he looked or not, he successfully stole the honey. The world would probably not be the same if he hadn't but he did. That little bit of fire honey got him reprimanded, but he was the only one that knew he'd kept it. Fire was to play a big part in his life, and that fire honey was the key to unlocking the life and love of the young man called Dustfinger.

The smoldering spark needed only a trigger to ignite and grow to a blazing inferno, and soon it was found.

Even though no one had taught him the art of performing by the time he took the dare, Dustfinger was already learning about fire-eating. People came and went from the many Strolling Player camps scattered across the lands, but, through whatever source of good fortune, there was always a fire-eater at the one Dustfinger was in. He swiftly learned how closely those performers guarded their secrets, sharing them with none but their kith and kin, but all he asked after those first few times was to watch. He watched while they practiced; he observed while they performed. In and out, up and down the fire-eaters would weave the flame. The eye was entranced with the beauty of the motion, the wild flicker of the fire. He swallowed the knowledge in through his eyes and ears and nose, never making a sound or disturbing the fire-dancer all the while, until whomever he'd been watching was sure the annoying boy was gone.

And whenever the boy could find a quiet moment, he practiced. A trick here with unlighted sticks for torches, a bit there with a bit of water for the liquid he'd seen the real performers use for breathing fire. He was careful to make sure no one saw him, and never used real fire for fear it would attract attention, but Dustfinger was learning all the same.

Then came the day he stole the honey. He never confided why or even how long after the dare he did it. No one can find a plausible reason for why he did what he did, but he did. Whether by accident or true intent, Dustfinger put fire honey in his mouth.


	3. Chapter 3:Showtime

Heart of Flame:

The Story of Dustfinger

Chapter Three: Showtime

It hurt. Fire honey always burns in the mouth, exactly like you would expect from something by that name. There is however, one thing which fire honey does to anyone who braves the pain that you would not expect. Dustfinger was, and still is, possibly the only person in that world to ever learn of it, aside from his wife.

You see, the words that came out when he opened his mouth weren't the same as regular speech. They sizzled and crackled like flames. Dustfinger was very surprised. He gave a little surprised shout, just like a regular human's, but then he tried to make the crackling noises again. They were a language he'd been hearing all his life, he realized; the words were the language of fire.

* * *

Dustfinger took a deep breath, then exhaled, long and slow. A torrent of flame shot away from his mouth, making the crowd clap and shout with delight. Dragon's Breath always delighted the crowd, but Dustfinger still had one trick left, waiting for the big finale.

_Just a moment longer_, he thought anticipating the debut of a very special trick that had yet to be performed outside of practice routines. As he juggled his torches, real ones now, his eyes were on the highest point of the circle, but his mind was far away.

He'd come far, very far from the young boy who had joined the Motley Folk so long ago. The boy was a young man now; the unapprenticed youth had become a professional fire eater. The Fire Dancer, some people were calling the young man. He liked the sound of that, and having a stage name bought in more coin for food and clothing, and tools to make his routines even better.

But his next trick needed no tools, he thought, tossing torches high with one hand and spinning in a circle so he could use his free hand to set them one by one in their stands arrayed around him. He glanced at the dancing flames briefly as he mentally prepared himself for his next trick. The fire wasn't blowing around much; that was good. Wind could ruin this trick.

He paused only long enough to get ready so as not to interrupt the performance. Concealing a bit of fuel in the palm of his cupped hand, he coaxed the fire into it. The crowd gasped at this dramatic moment, but Dustfinger wasn't finished yet. He was already sliding into the next part of the trick, ensuring the fire didn't stay in one place long enough to burn skin. How he did this brought on new waves of awe and disbelief. With a crackle of flame, really whispers in fire language, and a snap of his fingers, the fire was changing shape! It melted, grew into shapes. Fiery tulips burst into bloom on the ground, budding and expanding and disappearing and regrowing again. And then the separate fires merged, cackling fiendishly with glee, and then, in a dramatic flourish, flared up into a huge wall and disappeared.

Dustfinger held perfectly still, breathing softly but heavily in the dramatic silence. The dumbstruck audience stared, open-mouthed—even the shopkeepers had stopped hawking their wares from their stalls—and the silence stretched on for so long Dustfinger feared he had gone too far. But still he held his pose, forcing himself not to move a muscle. Seconds ticked by like an eternity, and he had to use all of his willpower not to ruin the finale. If he moved now, the mood would be dispelled, and even a slight loss in enjoyment meant a reduction in pay. He couldn't afford to lose money; while he had no qualms about stealing what he needed, he couldn't justify separating someone from something as valuable as the tools of his trade, even to purchase or make his own tools for his own shows. So he stood the suspense.


	4. Chapter 4:New Friends and Enemies

Heart of Flame:

The Story of Dustfinger

Chapter Four: New Friends… and Enemies

One person clapped. Then a second. Then another, and another, and then the whole marketplace was a thundering mass of applause. Everywhere he looked there was a happy face, looking at him, showing a level of appreciation only bested by that which the Laughing Prince received. There were coins upon coins clinking into his bucket; there was more money there, he thought, than the average Player could make in a week. Looking out across the crowd, he spotted one sour face.

Sootbird, another young fire-eater, was glaring jealously and massaging his burnt fingertips. The woefully inept fire-eater appeared to be unaware of anything else in the entire square, having eyes only for his newfound nemesis. Glares and silent threats were exchanged over the heads of the crowd, each daring the other with their eyes to cross them.

Sootbird, still not paying real attention to anything but himself, opted for a dramatic exit. He turned to strut proudly away, as if he had nothing to fear and didn't care for the little boy and his bag of tricks, but tripped on his oversized costume, which was bright red like all fire-eaters'. He never even saw the garbage cart behind him until it was too late. The soot-stained younger boy was further humiliated by the garbage which spilled across his face and clothing and piled atop him, as he sat in a very undignified and embarrassing manner in the overflowing garbage cart.

Dustfinger laughed.

* * *

There was little celebration in the camp that night. Sootbird was the only one showing open resentment, but there were no congratulations, no notice of any kind from the other Strolling Players. Few of them had even watched a part of his show, and none of them were impressed with what they'd actually seen. No one was concerned with a little boy's tall tales about his wonderful escapades. He tried to show them his haul, but when he first pulled the little pouch that served as a purse for him, he found the bottom slit, cut by a thieving pickpocket. Worse, he saw Sootbird run by with pockets clinking. Now Dustfinger was not only a lying, bragging fool, but a poor, trusting slob as well; and Sootbird was the wonderful, talented fire-eater who had stolen the show, literally, as Dustfinger alone knew. Idiot, he thought to himself. Imbecile. Never trust anyone, stranger or friend.

Depressed and lonely, and feeling rejected, Dusfinger plodded away from the main circle of people. It was getting dark by now, and he knew he'd have to light a fire of his own. The great fire-eater Dustfinger was reduced to tending a cookfire. No, it was worse than a cookfire. All it was, was something to keep him warm.

He snapped his fingers in a special way, a simple trick he'd used many times to start a flame. There was a skittering spark across the tinder he'd piled, but all it did was just that: skitter across. Frustrated, he tried again, snapping harder and more loudly. That time the spark died as soon as it left his fingers. He snapped again several times in quick succession, failing to raise so much as the temperature. Angrily, he whispered to the fire, telling it to listen to its master. He drew on his anger and commanded the fire, provoked the fire, to burn. Frustration mounted, threatening to erupt in shameful tears, but he couldn't make the fire start. Feeling lonely and betrayed be his bet of friends, he curled up alone on the cold, hard ground and tried to get some sleep.

He shivered nearly the whole night, wishing he had bothered to find something softer and warmer to sleep on, before it had gotten too dark to see by. Now everyone had gone to sleep for the night but him, and the new moon made it impossible to find a more pleasant bed. He was nearly half as uncomfortable on the outside as he was on the inside, which was plenty uncomfortable to keep a body awake at night.

As Dustfinger lay shivering and curled on the ground, rolling over and around to find a position with a little fewer rocks and hard tree roots beneath him, he heard a noise. It was surprising and unexpected, and close. Dustfinger automatically rolled upright and tensed, braced for danger. Whatever it was, he was ready for it, or so he wrongly thought.


	5. Chapter 5: Lover or Loser

Heart of Flame:

The Story of Dustfinger

Chapter Five: Lover or Loser?

The sound was the last thing he was prepared for: singing. It was a beautiful voice, as pretty as a nightingale call and as charming as a fox. It had a beautiful pattern and cadence, but was filled with unpredictability. Its sleepy tones reminded him of fire during a rainstorm, all bright and dancing, but quiet and still and slumber-like, too. It was a lullaby, the most beautiful he'd ever heard. Just before slipping into slumber, he saw the singer's face. There was moment of fuzzy incredulity that such music could come from the mouth of a girl his own age, but then he slipped into a Dreamland dominated by beautiful women. And they were singing, always singing.

Dustfinger woke up to the same voice he'd fallen asleep next to. This time it was a laughing song, a waking song, echoed by the birds who arose to greet the morning with the singer. Dustfinger, roused by the singing, opened his eyes and automatically sparked a flame to ward off the crisp morning air. It lit quickly, catching the tinder he'd piled earlier. He quickly fed the fire with twigs from nearby, then took a moment to look around.

There she was, by the creek. She was singing faintly as she washed her clothes. It was the girl from his first night, the one who'd invited him to play with her. He hadn't seen her much since then, but he still recognized the girl. He didn't even know her name, but he still very fondly remembered that night.

Dustfinger looked at her, then something weird started happening inside, something he didn't even notice. He was much more trusting then than he would eventually become, though already he was toughening up for tougher times ahead. All the same, he rarely let anyone very far into that fiery heart of his, locking the passion inside safely away like a candle in a stiff breeze. But something about the girl—her proud shoulders, her melodious voice, her wonderful, enchanting face—pierced right through him to the center of his very self, deeper than anyone else would ever quite go. The girl was so young but so old at the same time, and so lovely and perfect that Dustfinger knew right then and there that he would follow her to forever and back if only they could be together. But he couldn't even find the words to say hello, as if Dustfinger was they scared little boy in the camp once again.

The girl, the lovely lady-girl had been kind and caring to him, more than all the rest from that very first night with the Motley Folk. Images, memories were flashing before him, of how she'd always been there somewhere, even if she was physically on the far side of the inhabited lands. These thoughts, these feelings towards her had always been there, and now he realized once and for all just how he felt about the young woman. Dustfinger fell head-over-heels in love with the girl; he felt almost as deeply about this unknown, nameless lady-girl-woman as he did about fire. Just to look and think about her was like fire was burning his very bones to ash, but Dustfinger didn't notice that.

No, the great fire-eater Dustfinger, the fearless Dustfinger, the ever-clever, ever-cunning Fire Dancer Dustfinger was afraid to even speak. Rejection would have broken him, and he was afraid. There was no thought, no feeling except a vague buzzing in his brain, a compulsion to say something, anything, before she turned and notice him standing and gawking like a bulgy-eyed hanged man (not that he'd ever seen them, as they were far more common in the lands of the Adderhead than here in Ombra). Suddenly he wished he could switch places with those poor condemned robbers and petty thieves, for now the girl, _the_ girl he most loved and feared and wanted, the girl who'd welcomed him… now she was turning to look.

He pulled up his courage and kind of spluttered something unintelligible, catching his words midway out. And then finally, after seconds as long as all time, he managed to smile and stutter, "H-Hello." The girl smiled back, and Dustfinger knew he was in love.


	6. Chapter 6: Roxanne

**Never let it be said that I, the author, ever began something I could not finish. The updates were stopped due to a lack of free time and the fact that my main source of background information,**_** Inkspell**_**, went temporarily missing. After months of searching, during which time I finally gave up on the story— temporarily, of course— I reached down beneath my bed and saw, to my amazement, my copy of **_**Inkspell**_**! Let the story continue where we left off, with Dustfinger gawking at the pretty girl who is sure to break his flaming heart.**

Chapter Six: Roxanne

"It's not polite to stare, you know," the girl said, trying unsuccessfully to frown. Then she smiled wryly at Dustfinger. "But I get that a lot," she said, in a voice that perfectly matched her face. There was another pause, a shifting in emotion. Now she was frowning puzzledly. "I think I know you from somewhere," she told him, "but the person I'm thinking of is much too young to be you." She said guiltily, "I—I'd better get away before he wakes up."

"Who?" Dustfinger asked, forcing himself to talk normally, but feeling rejected already. She didn't know who he was, and she had another friend she probably knew much better. Trying to hold onto the hope he was wrong, he forced out, "I mean—why do you have to go before your friend wakes up?" If he'd known about a superstition like finger crossing, he would have been crossing his fingers that she wouldn't say the person would be jealous. If her friend was jealous of her being with him, that friend would probably be better competition than he. She didn't even know his name, and she had come up with it!

While Dustfinger was in inner turmoil, the girl was as calm as she would be around a lifelong friend, which her boyfriend probably was. "Actually," the girl replied, "The person I'm talking about isn't really my friend. I just don't want him to know who was singing last night. I think he was the only one awake, and it's kind of embarrassing. Also, I want to surprise him. It's been a long time since we've seen each other."

Funny, thought Dustfinger, that sounded a lot like him. But he had to confess. "Actually," Dustfinger told the girl, "I was awake last night, too. You scared me when you started singing. And—" Dustfinger hesitated, considering his next move and then forging on ahead, "I have something for you." He whispered a few words and pulled a fiery rose from behind his back. "Here you are," he said holding it out. For a moment, he kept it burning on the ground, but then Dustfinger let the fire go back to sleep. It was still a little damp for it to be awake, anyway. His mood was spiking wildly, spiraling from the nether regions of hopelessness up to an intoxicating degree of happiness and hope.

"Oh!" said the woman-girl, "I'm sure my acquaintance would really like that! He's absolutely fascinated with fire."

Now Dustfinger was sure the girl was writing his biography. If only he were a bit older and more mature like the girl's friend; then he could probably best whatever he could offer. Just like that, Dustfinger shot back down again. He'd never liked a girl in his life, and now just one was sending him into an emotional tailspin! Up, down, up, down… he was starting to get dizzy, either giddy with delight or nauseated by depression. Down he stretched, hanging like yoyo. He'd flattered her with flowers and impressed her with talent, and still she thought about her friend. Now he'd have to go see the guy and give him the what-for.

The thought sent him yo-yoing back up, and he used his moment of boldness to ask, "Who is he? What is his name?"

"I don't know his real name. I've always liked to think of him as Dustfinger."

"At your service, ma'am," Dustfinger replied theatrically, smiling with relief. She liked him!

After his performance that day, Dustfinger and the girl, Roxanne, sat by their own fire in the forest and talked. As the moon rose higher and higher, still they kept talking, the conversation waxing and waning as the tiny sliver of the moon marched on into the night among the twinkling stars. The conversation stretched on and on into the deep black sky as the pair caught up with each other, and when he night was very old it turned to a friend of Dustfinger's, one who had shown him and all the Motley Folk more kindness than most adults— the ones who were trustworthy, anyway.


	7. Chapter 7: The Bear and its Prince

Chapter Seven: The Black Bear and Its Prince

It was an off day, a rummaging in the garbage day for Dustfinger. He wasn't nearly good enough yet to earn any money in the marketplaces and too young to assist with any celebrations. Nearly all the Strolling Players who had once helped him as a tiny child had now left him for some reason or another, and he was once again feeling like the sad little orphan who had huddled, cold and alone, afraid to join the fire.

His attention was attracted to a small cage of fairies hanging from a rack by one of the stalls. Every so often one of the richer people or their servants who were in the marketplace would point to the cage and the shopkeeper would stick his grubby hand into the cage and remove one of the struggling creatures, who were placed in a jar to be used as a good luck charm and who knew what else.

Dustfinger decided to spend a bit of time freeing the poor creatures as he had done a few times before. He was about to start a diversion when one of the other boys he'd run with a few times caught his attention. Just as he had been creeping towards the fairies, the other boy had been sneaking his dark skin towards a far different spectacle.

Over in another part of the marketplace an especially unpleasant man was beating a tiny, skin-and-bones bear cub with a thorny stick. A ring to which a chain was attached with a tiny piece of rope hung from the bear's nose, which bled like the multiple cuts on the rest of him as he danced to an out-of-key tune emitting from a miserable musician's battered reed pipes. Using harsh words which carried above the music, the man laughed and laughed as he cajoled the bear with his anger into performing. The more miserable the bear looked, the more he laughed, in a voice as slick and greasy as his own unwashed hair and his shiny, malicious eyes. The man was no worse than the rest of them, and although he felt for the maltreated animal Dustfinger knew that there was nothing he could do about the poor bear. Such injustice was the way of life, and one boy could only fix so much.

Just as Dustfinger prepared to leap up and undo the catch on the cage of fairies, the dark-skinned boy looked at him with even darker eyes, beseeching. Dustfinger could sense the determination in that gaze and knew the boy would go with or without his help. Something passed between the two, and Dustfinger made up his mind. Snapping his fingers to produce a small spark which quickly died, he motioned to a small dry plant that had once struggled to grow at the foot of where the bear's stage now stood. It was long dead by appearance and would be almost insultingly easy to light ablaze. The other boy nodded in understanding and shifted his position, waiting for Dustfinger's distraction.

A few whispered fire-words, carried on the slight breeze, drifted across the oblivious heads of the crowd. A small dead branch suddenly flared up out of nowhere, jeopardizing the small crowd gathered to watch the bear and the rough stage upon which he and his cruel master stood. All eyes turned from the bear to watch the flame and all available hands tried to quench it, throwing dirt and water on the blaze. The legs supporting the stage were beginning to burn, and Dustfinger hoped the other boy would make his move quickly before the whole thing collapsed on top of everyone present, the brave orphan boy and the bear included.

As Dustfinger unlatched the fairies' cage with hasty fingers, the other boy finally made his move. A knife— Dustfinger had no idea where the boy had gotten it— sailed expertly through the throng and sliced off the short shank of rope holding the bear's chain to his nose ring. The same knife continued forward and pinned the bear's master to one of the stalls by several folds of his cloak and would have slashed some extremely tender skin had he not moved at the absolute last second and avoided being skewered like his clothing.

Dustfinger's newest friend slid easily up to the bear with another blade already in his hand. Calming the terrified animal with soothing words, he deftly twisted his knife into the bear's nose ring and severed it with a tiny flick of his wrist, and then he was running as the bear's master shouted and yanked at the knife securing him to the wall. Dustfinger was running too, now, as the shopkeeper selling the fairies had suddenly discovered his own loss.

The flames were beginning to die beneath the onslaught of the terrified townspeople, and soon their hand would be free to chase after the pair of mischievous boys. In fact many others were doing just that, throwing rotting vegetables at the two thieves and their bear as they fled from the town, and hard as Dustfinger tried he couldn't get the flames to keep burning and distracting their assailants. The bear's enraged previous owner finally managed to dislodge the knife that held him trapped and heaved it over the heads of the crowd and towards the running trio. Without stopping, the dark-skinned boy reached up and deftly plucked his knife from the air, then stowed it back in its rough sheath and continued running with his bear and Dustfinger, right on out of town.


	8. Chapter 8: Fire and Shadows

Chapter Eight: Fire and Shadows

A good time after that first real meeting, Dustfinger realized that he was running low on fire-honey and would need to acquire some more soon before the effects ran out. He went up to Roxanne and asked her a question, in the form of a statement, really. "I've got something extra special to show you, if you would like to watch."

"I'd love to see, Dustfinger," she cooed back, and Dustfinger all but melted to pieces. "Would you give me a hint?"

"It's better, even, than a late-night performance, although it certainly has a lot to do with fire." With that cryptic reply, he set off in search of a fire-elf nest that was less than a few weeks' walk away.

Later, Dustfinger waded into a spot where the stream spilled into a small pool and slathered himself with mud, to protect his skin from the stings. As he applied the cool wet dirt, he chattered idly to Roxanne, still refusing to fully explain. Rolling up his trouser legs, he told her, "It's best to cover all exposed skin." As he slid of his shirt, he imparted, "Never be greedy, they don't like it." When he began to rub it into his bare arms and Roxanne implored what the mud was for, he replied in a special, gentle tone, "I need to protect myself from this trick." When Dustfinger moved to his exposed torso, he finished, "This is one occasion when fire will always try to bite. But when I do this trick, I can have it do much more without biting." Replacing his shirt and rolling his trouser back down over his mud-covered legs, he finally informed her, "I'm letting you in on a personal trade secret. It's a wonderful game only I know to play." Striding over to a nearby tree where the fire-elves nested and motioning to Roxanne to stay where she was, Dustfinger continued speaking as naturally as if nothing was happening, if only to quiet his nerves. The mud was, in fact, a fairly new and as yet untested trick. He hoped he'd gotten the consistency right this time or he'd be out of work for days. "No one else," he resumed, "knows how to get at the prize."

Then he stopped talking and began to hum, a continuous, rather tuneless tone which quieted the furious jittering of the fire-elves' flight. Forcing himself not to flinch, not to incite them at all as Roxanne remained watching breathlessly without moving a single muscle he reached farther, farther and farther into the fire-elf nest and removed a tiny piece of fire-honey, an itsy-bitsy fragment that was scarcely the size of his thumbnail. Dustfinger could feel their heat through the mud and knew he would be stinging later but now all that mattered was the greatest tool of his trade, the fire honey. Turning away slowly, slowly, still humming as Roxanne stood frozen and awe, he walked leisurely away with the honey wrapped in leaves and bathed himself clean further up along the river, cooling the beginnings of tiny blisters on his face and arms.

And when Roxanne finished staring at the lazy patterns the elves had made while Dustfinger hummed and come with him out of sight upstream, Dustfinger spoke a few fire-words, loudly where she could hear the crackling cadence. And that was when she knew for sure her heart was his, just as it was the time when Dustfinger knew at last that she loved him, and always would.

* * *

Not far from a different group of Strolling Players at a different camp for those beloved robbers, a boy with extremely dark skin and eyes and a very loyal and very grateful tame bear who followed at his side always lay tensely in the dirt. He knew that any motion could prove dangerous and almost certainly fatal, and so despite his tiff muscles he stayed and watched from the undergrowth. At the time, he was stroking the inside of his bear's mouth to calm him, in an almost absentminded way. The bear was quite agitated, and for good reason.

They were crouched not three yards from a group of drunk soldiers who laughed as they boasted, sharing tall tales of how they'd killed the loathed robber-performers who stalked the wild lands outside of every major city in Lombrica and Argenta alike, Ombra included.

While the fledgling ruler the Adderhead had made his disposition towards all the vagabonds who eked out their living among back roads and byways painfully clear, there were still some rumors of unrest even around the Castle of Night on Mount Adder. Aside from the crooked-fingered crone of a young woman planting poisonous trees around the castle and amassing a small rebellion of roving, pitiful young men with nowhere to go but to her cruel and fury-fueled son, there were tales told and songs sung of a small rebellion of a different kind, one that opposed rather than complimented the throne.

The devilish and daring young boy had grown into a handsome and fearless young man who smirked at the soldiers' talk. His troupe of testosterone-fueled young men had already been conducting scandalously audacious raids on the Adder's own men themselves, risking life and limb to strike back at a cruel ruler who had already added misery upon the misery of all those before him. His men followed him as his bear did, like shadows, doing their shadow of a master proud. They had opted to call themselves the Black Faction, out of respect for their leader, but all the tribute he allowed beyond whatever loyalty they wanted to give was that they refer to him as the Black Prince, and only that after much persuasion that it would further enrage the bully ruler and hinder the rationality of his decisions.


End file.
